


ecchymosis

by chateauofmyheart



Series: queen + rare words [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drunken Hook-Ups, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, Love Bites, M/M, Male Friendship, Misunderstandings, Team as Family, brian is doing his best, deaky Knows, freddie's clueless and just trying to live his best gay life, please communicate roger, roger is a dumb thot but we love him, roger's gay panic, set in the late 70s when they're famous, specifically the 1977 news of the world tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 21:19:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chateauofmyheart/pseuds/chateauofmyheart
Summary: ecchymosis - medical term for a bruise"Roger’s concerns for his back- he wasn’t that old, god- fell to the ground with a metaphorical splat as he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. What on earth had he been up to last night?His hair was a wild mess, sticking up in all directions. But more important were the bruises."





	ecchymosis

**Author's Note:**

> the feedback on this series has been amazing and i will continue writing for it as long as i have inspiration!! thank you sm!!!

Roger woke up with his entire body aching. He couldn’t decide if it was a good ache, like from a particularly energetic show or rough sex, or a bad ache, like when he was sick as child. He sat up to stretch and- yeah, most likely a good ache.

He ambled over to the bathroom, feeling the pleasant burn in his shoulders down to his hips. He rolled his arms over his head and yawned, testing the hangover-induced headache throbbing at the edges of his vision. His lower back twinged not-so-pleasantly, which made him falter. That wasn’t a good ache. Actually, that was new.

Roger’s concerns for his back- he wasn’t that old, god- fell to the ground with a metaphorical splat as he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. What on earth had he been up to last night?

His hair was a wild mess, sticking up in all directions. But more important were the bruises. Bright red and purplish blue, edged with a softer pink, like paint splotches on his skin. They littered down his neck, along his collarbones, across his chest. He turned and found them on the back of his neck, on his shoulders, down his spine. Bruises weren’t uncommon, not with his lifestyle and how sensitive his skin was, but usually the women he slept with wouldn’t have had access to his back, and certainly not long enough for serious marks like these to form.

His eyes fell to the bottom of the mirror and his gut did a strange twist. Fingerprints of deep violet were smeared onto his hip bones. Roger for a moment could do nothing but stare. On a whim, he fit his fingers over the bruises. They lined up, which meant-. Roger froze and tried to process for a moment. What did that mean?

The earlier headache hit him like a truck. Bile rose to the back of his throat and his heart pounded so loud he thought it would burst, though he knew realistically overworked hearts don’t burst, they stop, and- 

Two knocks on the door. “Roger, dear?”

Roger’s heart went from 100 to 0 as it quite literally stopped. What was Freddie doing here?

When Freddie responded he realized he might have said that out loud.

“Apparently we shared a room last night. I woke up on the floor! Thank you for that by the way, letting your guest sleep on the floor, very classy.”

“What? Why’d we…?” Roger trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence and still preoccupied with getting his heart beating regularly. How on earth had he missed seeing Freddie when he woke up? 

Freddie’s voice filtered through the door again. “Well, love, I do believe it has something to do with these empty bottles on the floor over here.” Roger could hear Freddie move away as he spoke, soft steps on the hotel room carpet. After a moment Freddie’s voice returned and Roger could hear him touch the door again. “Anyways, hurry up, darling! I need the bathrobe in there.”

“What? Why?” Roger was starting to feel a little stupid. Nothing was making sense and the things his brain kept suggesting brought such a chaotic storm of conflicting feelings that he just wanted to go back to bed and forget everything.

“I need to get back to my room, and I’m not going out half-naked! Open the door” Freddie commanded and Roger’s heart sped up again as he remembered he himself was only in underwear, which really wouldn’t have been a problem if not for the dark bruises all over him. In a flash of questionable brilliance, Roger grabbed one of the large, fluffy white towels and draped it over his shoulders, effectively covering his neck and chest and the incriminating hip bone marks. He cracked the door open.

Freddie, with similarly messy hair and a small impatient smile, moved forward into his space, grabbing a white bathrobe hanging by the shower Roger hadn’t noticed before. With a twirl, Freddie left the bathroom, soft white fabric brushing Roger’s exposed hands.

“Thank you, darling!” Freddie said cheerfully, and disappeared out the hotel room door. Roger stood there, towel clutched around him like a shock blanket. For a moment he just stared out into nothing. Then the earlier panic that Freddie had interrupted came flooding back in and left Roger gripping the sink counter as his head spun and black spots danced across his vision. 

Images of purple red spots on pale skin flashed in his mind, fingertips on hip bones seared into his skin like a brand. He knew what those meant. It meant someone had held his hips from behind, long and hard enough that it bruised. And the hands were as large, if not slightly larger, than his. And Freddie had slept in his room, and there were bottles on the floor. Roger could do the math.

Had he- had he and Fred- fuck, he couldn’t even think it.

Roger didn’t know how long he was there in the hotel bathroom, panicking about possibly sleeping with one his closest friends. A man. He didn’t have a problem with- that, he knew Freddie’s preferences; but he wasn’t, he couldn’t be. Roger Taylor liked women, everyone knew that. He made sure everyone knew that. 

And yet.

Those bruises staining his skin, painting his body with the undeniable proof that Roger may very well be the twink people thought he was. Nausea rolled through his gut and that dawning feeling of slow uncomfortable realization filled him and his limbs felt heavy. Roger didn’t know what to do.

 

Some time later, Roger woke up from his muddled sea of thoughts. He got dressed, tugging on one of his few less-revealing shirts and a jacket that covered his neck well enough, and went downstairs. Everything felt vaguely hazy and Roger pretended not to notice.

Freddie was sat alone by a sunny window, munching delicately on what looked to be a scone, which was definitely not from the hotel’s breakfast assortment. He was reading a newspaper, wearing a simple, undersized t-shirt that fit ill around his chest and hung too short over his belt. Roger found himself gazing at the tiny strip of stomach before he pulled his attention away, sitting down across from the fluffy black hair hid behind the paper. An assortment of similar scones covered the small table.

Freddie finished whatever he was reading before looking up, dark eyes shining in the morning light. 

“Took you long enough! Have a scone.” Roger did. It was cinnamon, with a delicate sweetness that spoke of artisan quality. It melted in his mouth and Roger almost moaned. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was.

“Where did you get these?” he asked through a mouthful of cinnamon flavored delight.

“A little bakery down the road” Brian’s voice responded, above him to the left. Roger twisted in his seat to look up at him. “John saw it yesterday, and we decided to get some while you two were still asleep.” John popped up behind Brian’s shoulder, holding two steaming disposable cups.

They sat down, John passing a cup to Brian as he moved next to Roger. There was something warm about John’s presence, and Roger appreciated it now more than ever. John offered a squinty smile, brighter than the sun.

“How’s your hangover?” he asked bluntly. Roger winced slightly before laughing.

“‘S not so bad with these scones! Cheers for finding that bakery, Deaky” he grinned back. Freddie echoed the statement. John did his little shy shrug and ducked his head. Roger grabbed another scone.

They ate quietly, talk and laughter occasionally filling the wintry sun-filled air. It was nice, the peace after the storm of a show that had happened the night before, and Roger found himself appreciating the moment; John’s giggles and little comments, Brian’s sudden smiles and playful banter, and Freddie’s dark eyes and bright voice and the way his cheekbones caught the light.

It was nice enough that he could almost forget the bruises, tucked away like dirty secrets under his clothes. Almost.

 

That night, their second performance in the same location, Roger couldn’t sit still. His muscles were sore in a way they’d never been before and sitting on his stool was incredibly uncomfortable. He never dropped so many drumsticks in one show before. 

Freddie moved across the stage as he always did, along Brian and next to John and back up to Roger’s drum kit, which normally would’ve been fun and harmless except now Roger couldn’t look away from the sweat-glistening chest and dark eyes and shiny lips pursed in song. Freddie looked hungry and it left Roger breathless.

He tried to remind himself that he wasn’t even sure he’d slept with Freddie, it could all be one big misunderstanding and there was some perfectly logical solution he’d not thought of yet, but it was difficult as he watched Freddie arch his back, pressing his body along the half mic and belting. Something warm pooled in Roger’s gut and he did his absolute best to ignore it and get lost in the music.

It only half worked, and Roger’s pants were tight until after the show, where he found a groupie and a decent distraction. He didn’t see Freddie at all until next morning. 

 

The sinful bruises faded quickly enough and were replaced by new ones, hickeys in the right places with memories attached to them. Roger tried to avoid getting completely plastered, a resolution which lasted about the average new years resolution; about three days.

He woke up the next morning, knowing he’d been black out drunk, and panicked a bit, but there were two girls in his hotel bed and not one mysterious bruise. Roger decided it was a one time thing, a simple accident.

He was wrong.

 

It was a two weeks after what Roger had dubbed the Incident, and he’d nearly forgotten about it. Freddie was his normal self and Roger was too, and nothing had really changed after Roger’s gay panic except the fact that he’d worn real shirts for four days and gotten teased about it by Brian. Brian, who’d been very close Freddie lately. They’d always been close and it had never bothered Roger until now. It was just annoying how much they stuck together, and the ugly, angry feeling in Roger’s chest wasn’t jealousy, no matter how much it felt like it.

“You’re going to break that glass if you hold it any tighter” John commented mildly. Roger startled slightly and looked over to see John sipping a cocktail, unimpressed. 

He loosened his grip on the glass he was holding and flexed his fingers. He usually would’ve been in the middle of the group and the noise, but tonight he’d stayed by the bar. John pressed closer to be heard over the sounds of the club around them. 

“You’ve been staring at Freddie all night.”

“No I haven’t!” Roger protested. John looked, if possible, even more unimpressed. “Fuck off, Deaky” he muttered. John ignored him and went back to his cocktail, which was a very bright peach color with a little umbrella. Roger thought it looked dumb.

Roger found his gaze wandering back to Freddie, shirtless in his black leather pants and suspenders. He was fuzzy at the edges, too far away for Roger to see properly, but the smears of bright light along his body and the shiny leather had him looking like sin personified. Brian was stood next to him, shirt unbuttoned halfway down and laughing. Hatred like poison seeped into Roger and he forced himself to look away. He threw back the last of his drink.

“This is boring, I’m going to find some entertainment.” Roger wiggled his eyebrows at John, who just met his gaze with a knowing, deadpan stare and continued to sip his stupid peach cocktail.

Roger wandered into the colorful crowd, no destination in mind. Just a distraction, anything at all to make him less angry. It was irrational, he knew, and his frustration only grew as he wasn’t able to find anything or anyone interesting enough to keep his attention. There were a few glances, there always were, but Roger couldn’t care less at the moment.

A hand brushed him arm and he shrugged it off without looking. Maybe he should just go back to the hotel, he thought as he reached the edge of the crowd. There was nothing here for him.

“Roger, dear, there you are!” Freddie’s voice, lilting and loud, rang out behind him. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, but you simply disappeared.”

Roger felt that heat come pooling back as Freddie gazed at him with those dark eyes. If he’d been sin before, he was something much worse up close. Sweat shone on his bare chest and his face was lightly flushed from the alcohol. His eyes were a paradox of dark and bright, cold danger and happy warmth; it was so Freddie. Roger felt himself getting lost in it.

“Why don’t you come join me, darling? You look like you could stand to relax a little” and the grin he flashed Roger was coy and mysterious; if Roger were stronger he would’ve known better than to agree and follow Freddie. But it was nearly impossible not to follow Freddie and Roger had never been known for his good ideas. 

He woke up the next morning in the wrong bed. Freddie lay next to him, fast asleep. On Freddie’s neck lay a string of hickeys like a necklace and Roger barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting.

His head pounding louder than any drums he’d ever played and bruises like tattoos of shame on his hips, he crept back to his own room and promptly passed right back out again.

 

Brian raised his eyebrows as Roger approached the breakfast table. He collapsed in the empty chair next to John and grabbed blindly at whatever was on the table- another scone, as it turned out.

“You look like shit, Rog.” Roger decided he wasn’t going to able to stomach the scone and dropped it carelessly on the table. He met Brian’s gaze through his sunglasses.

“Thanks, mate.” He stole Brian’s mug and chugged the tea inside it, ignoring Brian’s protesting “Hey!”. He could feel the others watching him and ignored it, shoving a hand into his shirt before remembering he’d buttoned it up all the way. 

Breakfast was a little awkward after that, with Roger’s obvious bad mood, but it picked up eventually and even Roger found himself talking and laughing along. 

At the elevators Brian pulled him aside.

“What was wrong today? I thought it was one of your usual moods but you’ve been acting strange lately.” Roger rolled his eyes, frustration already back and burning under his skin. 

“There’s nothing wrong, Brian, piss off.” Okay maybe that wasn’t the best way of going about convincing Brian he was fine, but Brian had been the reason for his anger lately and he didn’t want any annoying attempts of offered sympathy.

Which was good, because Brian certainly wasn’t sympathetic. “Roger, you’re being a massive prick. Something’s obviously wrong, and you’re an idiot if you think the rest of us can’t see it.”

“It doesn’t affect the rest of you, so you can fuck right off!” Roger realized he was raising his voice slightly, but Brian just hissed sharply back.

“Yes it does, Rog. This might come as a shock to you, but your moodiness does have an impact on people other than you.” Roger scoffed. “It affects how we play, how we perform, and most importantly,” Brian’s voice dropped a fraction, “we’re worried about you, mate. There’s something bothering you and we want to help you.” Brian held his gaze almost pleadingly.

Roger looked at him for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“There’s nothing wrong.” He turned his back to Brian and took the stairs up.

 

Taking the stairs was a petty but unsatisfying thing to do, as there were many stairs and Roger hated climbing. The hangover didn’t help.

He spent the rest of the day not talking to people and throwing things in frustration. They were traveling, so thankfully no gig, but it meant he was trapped in close quarters with the others for far too long. On top of everything, his arse hurt sitting in any one position too long and he couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did. He was about ready to kill everyone, and from the looks on some the other faces, he wasn’t the only one.

John, especially, looked about a second away from mass murder as Roger grabbed his bass to stop the strumming that had been going on for a couple of minutes and- okay, maybe he felt a little guilty about that one. 

Brian was watching him all day, face unreadable and Roger couldn’t tell if he was mad, disappointed, sad, pitying, or some ugly combination of all three. He didn’t care to look and find out. He avoided Brian as much he could.

The worst was Freddie, though. He’d tried so hard to be cheerful and mediate the rage-filled tension, face imploring and so cute and hopeful and it was obnoxious. Roger had snapped at him and watched Freddie’s face go blank, effectively shutting down. Freddie didn’t talk to him the rest of the day. The guilt ate through him like acid. The fresh bruises on his hips throbbed.

 

The tension had lessened by the next show, but it was still there, simmering under the surface.

Freddie danced around, a graceful and forceful storm of energy across the stage that rained over the audience and filled the entire theater. It left Roger breathless again. Freddie’s eyes were ablaze with something new, and when he danced up to Roger’s kit- god, it felt like he’d burn the whole place down. Roger had never heard Freddie’s voice crack so many times, and he’d be lying if it wasn’t kind of attractive. 

It was cathartic, hitting the gong. Made him feel powerful. Roger sang loud and beat the drums and that rage he’d been carrying burned away, Freddie’s heat replacing it. He felt like Freddie had set him on fire, a cleansing inferno that destroyed the poison inside him. The bruises were exorcised and he was clean again.

He needed Freddie, the same way he needed music, or air. He needed his laughter and his wild ideas and drunken rambling and his dark eyes and the bruises he left. He needed Freddie, and he allowed himself to accept that fact in the space between two drum beats, the space between two belted words. 

When they went to bow at the end, Roger had never been grinning so wide. He caught Brian’s eye, and then John’s, and put as much love it his face as he could. He loved Queen, he loved them and he loved Freddie, and that was okay.

He stood right next to Freddie as the crowd roared, and when Freddie looked over to him, Roger pushed that love energy to him as well. Freddie’s eyes widened slightly before he grinned back, teeth showing, and Roger’s heart stopped again, then sped up like a patient shocked back to life.

 

They went to a club afterwards and the high of the show followed. Everyone was amazingly happy, laughing and shouting and grabbing at each other. Roger was back with Freddie in the middle of the group, drinking bottled joy. Freddie wasn’t blurry at the edges because he was right there, and Roger wondered if this was what flying felt like.

A weird feeling- almost like disappointment, which Roger decided not to examine further- sat in his chest when he woke up the next morning alone, in his own bed.

 

Breakfast was once more a quiet affair, but light and happy. Instead of scones, John had found croissants and Brian was not-quite-smiling softly over his newspaper. Roger had put away one chocolate croissant and was working on his second when Freddie joined them, wearing his rainbow shirt. Roger felt warm inside looking at him, sleepy and casual- a different warm than during a show, but just as overwhelming.

Brian shifted over in the booth for Freddie and offered a croissant. “I rescued one of the chocolate ones from Roger, he was going to take them all otherwise.”

Freddie snorted and Roger pulled his most dramatic offended face.

“How dare you! Are you calling me a glutton?”

“Rog, you are a glutton.” Roger gasped loudly. Freddie started on his croissant and exchanged amused looks with John. Brian and Roger bantered back and forth, occasionally interrupted by one of the others. At some point, the conversation turned to the show the night before. Freddie grinned as he recalled how energetic the crowd was.

“-and I’m sure they’ve got lovely things to say about us in the papers, those ungrateful Americans. Really, why they’ve got to pretend they don’t like anything outside their norm is beyond me!”

“It’s the conservatism of their culture! They can’t be seen as enjoying something that’s not approved of, it’s- it’s social suicide. Really, they never had an official church, but they certainly act like they did” Roger bitched back, annoyed. “They think we’re too queer because we know how to have fun!”

“Well they’re not entirely wrong” Freddie said smugly. Brian snorted next to him. Roger looked between the two, feeling tendrils of that anger- jealousy, he’d maybe admit- start to creep back but then John nudged his shoulder and offered the last chocolate croissant and the feeling was dispelled by affection.

He gave John a tiny peck on the cheek and shoved half the croissant into his mouth in one go. John pulled a face, but then smiled his brilliant sunshine smile and ruffled his newly cropped hair, tugging at the longer strands at the base of his neck.

“Roger that’s disgusting” Brian commented. He cringed when Roger responded with his mouth full.

“You’re disgusting.” He sprayed crumbs onto the empty plate in front of him. Brian rolled his eyes.

“Very mature, Rog.”

 

The next few shows were a rush of light and noise and drinking and city wandering. It was overwhelming and exhausting, as any good tour should be. Roger felt like he was burning up everytime he was onstage, especially as Freddie danced like a peacock in his glittering sequin-covered bodysuit. 

Shows were so much easier without the distraction of complicated feelings and corrosive self-hatred. They never talked about Roger’s earlier foul mood and he appreciated it. They all had their boundaries. With half the group as shy as they were, it was amazing they were so open at all.

Three days after his explosive revelation of acceptance, it all came to a head. That morning, Roger had woken up in Freddie’s bed again and crept back to his room before the other had awoken. Sitting on his little stool during the show that night was unpleasant, but in between songs he rubbed at the bruises on his collarbones and shoulders and let himself like the feeling. There were bruises on the insides of his thighs this time, which sent a little jolt of excitement through him everytime he thought about it too long.

Changing after the show, as always, he made sure no one saw the bruises. He put on his favorite aviators and they all headed out to a bar Freddie had been recommended.

 

He was just moving past tipsy when Freddie approached him away from the group. They were in a small niche, next to the crowd but not a part of it. Freddie looked angelic in the low light.

“Roger, darling, why didn’t you tell us?” His voice was slightly raspy from the show and it did things to Roger.

His brain took a second to process what Freddie had said. “Tell you what?” he asked.

“You should know that we, of all people, would understand.” Freddie was resting a hand on his shoulder now, and Roger had no idea what was going on.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw the bruises, love. When we were all changing before the show.” Roger’s stomach dropped. Shit.

He played dumb. “What bruises?” Freddie looked at him in blatant disbelief. Roger’s stomach hit the floor and kept going.

“I recognize those types of bruises. I’ve gotten a few of them myself.” Somewhere underneath the cold panic, a small part of Roger decided that was incredibly hot. He cursed his horniness.

“Fred- fuck, uh-” Roger had no idea what to say. He didn’t want to mess this up, not again.

“I understand how nervous you must be; I’ve felt the same way. But you have nothing but support from all of us, and we want you to feel you talk to us about personal shit.” Freddie’s voice was so soft Roger thought he might have drowned in it.

“Have you told the others?” he blurted as the thought struck him. Freddie looked both affronted and understanding.

“Of course not, darling! This is something personal, it’s up to you to tell them when you feel you’re ready” he replied, rubbing Roger’s arm supportively. 

Freddie dropped his hand and Roger felt cold. He stepped back like he was going to leave and panic welled up, all at once, and Roger spoke before he could stop to think about it.

“It was you.”

Freddie stopped and stared at him, eyes wide and disconcerted. “What?” Roger immediately regretted speaking, ever. Who on earth let him open his mouth? 

“What are you talking about?” Freddie was very close now- too close, Roger couldn’t breathe- and without realizing, he moved back. Freddie followed him until Roger felt the wall of the small niche against his back. He was trapped, and Freddie was right there, with something like fear creeping into those earnest eyes.

“Roger, darling, please, what do you mean?” Freddie sounded almost desperate now, and Roger realized he’d waited too long to respond. He swallowed and, dropping his eyes, forced himself to speak.

“You- uh, gave me the bruises, Freddie. We- fuck,” he snorted, a bit hysterically, at his own stumble, “We fucked, I think, when we got drunk yesterday.”

Freddie didn’t respond. Roger didn’t dare look up. “Shit- Fred, I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you-”

“We slept together? I think I would’ve remembered that” Freddie interrupted and- okay, he didn’t sound mad, exactly, or disgusted, but he didn’t really sound like he believed him either. Roger winced.

“We were both too drunk to remember it, and I always left before you noticed-” 

Freddie interrupted him again, sounding a little more upset this time. “Are you saying this happened more than once?” Roger winced harder this time.

“I- maybe?”

“How many times?” 

“Well, I think the first time was when you woke up on my floor and I was in the bathroom, and then, uh, I think there were two or three other times?” Roger felt a little like crying. This was going very poorly and not at all how he wanted to, and looking back now his reaction seemed kind of stupid, really.

“And you’re okay with that?” Freddie asked, voice quiet. Roger looked up in surprise.

“No! I mean, I would’ve liked to remember...” he trailed off, staring at Freddie’s face. It was so open and yet completely indecipherable.

“You want to- remember having sex with me?” Roger flushed and realized yes, he absolutely would. He didn’t respond.

Freddie held his gaze, looking so much older and more mature than Roger had ever thought him. He looked like a god, like he’d seen things no one could ever imagine. He was so powerful, and Roger could only bask in his light.

Then he seemed to realize something with a startled “Oh!” and he looked young again, reaching up to grab gently at Roger’s shoulders. His hands were so warm.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I Rog? I could never forgive myself-”

“No no no no!” Roger reassured him, smiling despite himself. “Just a little sore and bruised, but nothing serious.”

Freddie was still frowning, concerned. “There were some pretty large bruises on your spine, darling, I’d to think-”

“Freddie, it’s fine!”

“Still, I’d like to take a look at them to make sure” Freddie looked him in the eye, “Please, Roger?”

“Okay” he mumbled, face flushing again. “Sure.”

 

Freddie hunted down their driver and they went back to the hotel. They ended up in Roger’s room, Freddie sat on the bed and Roger standing before him, suddenly aware of how much this looked like a striptease. 

He pulled off his shirt and dropped it awkwardly to the floor, then slowly wriggled out of his tight jeans. He tripped and stumbled slightly, which made Freddie giggle and then they were both laughing as Roger kicked off his jeans. He was still grinning when Freddie reached out and brushed his fingertips along his collarbones and- oh. Roger’s smile fell as his mouth dropped open.

Freddie ran his fingers along Roger’s chest delicately, making his heart pick up. He stood stock-still, unsure as to how to react. A fingertip brushed his nipple and he bit his lip to stop from making noise.

“Turn around.” 

Freddie’s voice was heavy, almost like he hadn’t meant it, and Roger’s gut twisted. He did what he was told.

For a beat, nothing happened. Then he heard Freddie rise from bed and those fingers were fitting over the bruises on his hip bones and- they fit perfectly. Roger stared at the hands resting on his hips, so familiar in such a completely unfamiliar situation. 

Freddie’s breath tickled the hair covering his neck. Roger couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t remember doing this to you, but I can imagine it.” Freddie’s voice was low, right next to his ear, and Roger let out a little noise which he would definitely not call whimper.

“I’d like to do it and remember it, though, darling. Would you?” 

Roger stared unseeingly ahead, frozen, before turning to face him.

Freddie was flushed as well, eyes half-lidded and slightly hazy. His mouth was open slightly, teeth visible, and Roger couldn’t look away from his lips.

“Yeah” he breathed into the space between them. He leaned forward, only partly subconsciously, feeling Freddie’s hands still resting on his hips twitch and tighten slightly. Their lips met.

Freddie pressed himself forward, body aligning with Roger’s. They were nearly the same height, though Freddie had to tilt his head up slightly. Roger was set on fire again, that warmth coursing through his body. A hand came up to tangle through his hair, cupping his neck and holding him. Freddie caught Roger’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugged gently as they seperated. Roger’s knees went weak.

“I love you.”

Both of their eyes widened simultaneously. Freddie held his gaze for a moment and then ducked his head, looking up at Roger through his lashes with and soft, striking smile, teeth and all.

“I love you too, dear.”

 

Roger woke up in his bed the next morning and stretched, feeling a good ache burn through his muscles. Beside him, Freddie breathed softly. Roger stopped, hands flying up to his neck where he knew new bruises would be, before remembering and smiling. He eyed the bathroom door, considering, but then snuggled back down in the sheets, tangling his limbs with Freddie’s and reveling in the warmth of it.

Freddie looked gorgeous asleep, and Roger had never really stopped to look at him before- an absolute travesty. His dark lashes fanned over his sharp cheekbones, his red lips parted slightly, his fluffy hair framing his beautiful face, the ethereal glow of his face in the bright winter morning light. 

Roger couldn’t help but press a soft kiss to his nose. He rubbed the bruises on his thighs and closed his eyes.

 

John had found muffins for breakfast that morning. But when Freddie and Roger came together and sat down down, Brian pushed over a plate with two cinnamon scones on it.

“You liked them so much when we got them three weeks ago, so when we saw them we thought you might want them” Brian explained.

They both dug in immediately. Next to him, John leaned over and murmured quietly in Roger’s ear. “It’s our way of thanking you for finally figuring shit out.” 

Roger nearly choked, looking back at John in bemusement. John simply shrugged. “I saw you leave together. We’re not blind. Well, maybe Brian is. I had to help him figure it out.”

“Oh, sod off!” Brian rolled his eyes, having heard the comment. Beside him, Freddie eyed the two before gasping in outrage.

“You knew!”

Brian laughed, shoulders heaving forward. John raised his eyebrows. 

“Obviously.” 

Freddie dramatically threw himself back in his chair. “What good are friends?” he lamented. Roger would’ve joined him if he could stop laughing.

Breakfast ended with them all smiling. Roger caught Brian’s eye from across the table and Brian looked weirdly proud. 

“I’m glad you figured things out, even if you were kind of bitch about it” he told Roger as they got in the car. Roger elbowed him and grinned at the floor.

His shirt was open at the next show, bruises like jewelry around his neck. The ones on his legs- those he kept between Freddie and himself.

**Author's Note:**

> friendly note: this is about as explicit as im going to get, at least for now. im just not quite comfy writing actual sex scenes yet, so all you get is suggestive stuff and fun hints. sorry to disappoint and i hope you liked this!! 
> 
> i did a lot of fact-checking on this fic, which im very proud of, and i added a few facts n details. if you have any questions or just wanna ramble at me about these lads in the comments please go ahead! future fic suggestions/requests are always welcome as well, though i can't promise i'll write everything


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